IN  THE  KING'S  GARDEN 


And  Other  Poems 


BY 


JAMES   BERRY   BENSEL 
(I 


BOSTON 
D.   LOTHROP    AND    COMPANY 

FRANKLIN  AND  HAWLEY  STREETS 


. 


COPYRIGHT,  1885,  BY 
D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY. 


TO  EMILY. 


We  gathered  apple-blossoms  one  fair  day 
And  pink  arbutus  from  the  woodland  near. 

Wild  roses  growing  by  the  country  way 
And  clover  too  ;  can  you  remember •,  dear  ? 

We  gathered  them  for  mother.     Sister  mine, 
I  pluck  these  leaflets  from  my  tree  of  song 

For  her  and  you  in  Heaven^  that  sacred  shrine 
Where  they  by  every  right  of  love  belong. 

And  you,  I  do  believe  >  will  feel  and  know 

The  heart-beats  through  them,  and  the  tears  in  showers 
That  set  so  many  of  them  forth  to  grow  ; 

Therefore  I  bring  these  as  we  brought  the  flowers. 


M191806 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

IN  THE  KING'S  GARDEN 7 

MY  BIRTHDAYS 12 

A  MARBLEHEAD  LEGEND 14 

FROM  A  FIELD 17 

IN  ARABIA 20 

MY  SAILOR 24 

Two 26 

A  RHYME  OF  SUMMER 27 

A  SONG  OF  RAIN 30 

FAILURE 33 

ON  AN  ANTIQUE  CAMEO 34 

OF  LOVE 35 

To  BE  DEAD .       .36 

THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER 37 

A  PORTRAIT         .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  38 

SONNET 39 

HER  FACE 40 

PATIENCE 41 

QUESTIONINGS 42 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 
GOLDEN-ROD  AND  ASTERS 


A  GLOVE 


.     .     .     .  46 

AT  EVENING 4- 

SHE  AND  I -0 

THE  DESERTED  HOUSE *~ 

THE  STATUE  IN  THE  WOOD 56 

FORGOTTEN 59 

REMEMBERED 62 

A  LOCK  OF  HAIR 6^ 

THE  MUEZZIN 67 

IN  THE  RAIN 70 

ON  THE  BRIDGE  .        .       .       ...        .        .        .72 

THE  STAR'S  MISSION 78 

THE  WIFE  OF  ATTILA  DIED 81 

AMONG  THE  GRASSES 83 

ABOUT  MYSELF 86 

MEMORIALS 89 

SYMPATHY 93 

AHMED ^ 

SOMETIME ^7 

IN  ABSENCE ^8 

AT  MIDNIGHT I0i 


IN   THE   KING'S   GARDEN. 

A     KING  of  the  old  time,  whose  name  and  race 

Are  clean  forgotten  as  his  human  face, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  ilex-trees  one  day, 
Wandering  alone,  came  where  the  shadows  lay 
So  deep  and  dark  they  made  a  twilight  gloom, 
Such  as  abides  within  a  shrouded  room 
Where  one  is  dead.     The   place  was   cool    and 

sweet 

With  garden  scents  that  made  it  their  retreat; 
So  the  king  paused  awhile,  and  smiled  to  feel 
The  musky  odors  through  his  senses  steal, 
And  the  cool  dampness  of  the  tree-leaves  lie 
Thick  on  his  hair.     He  turned,  he  knew  not  why, 
To   go,  but   caught   the   gleam   of  some   bright 

thing 

In  a  far  corner.     "  Lo,  it  is  a  ring !  " 
And  so  it  was,  but  a  white  finger  too  ; 
A  hand,  wrist,  arm,  a  shoulder  into  view 


R  In  tltc  K<  no;  s*  Garden. 

At  the  king's  touch  came  quickly;   then  a  face 
Wistful  and  wan,  but  with  a  pallid  grace, 
Such  as  a  lily  has,  that,  plucked  and  worn, 
Is  white  though  faded,  fragrant   though  forlorn. 
And  from  the  leafy  cavern  to  the  light 
Of   the  fierce  sun,  the  king  with  cheeks   grown 

white  — 
Most     strangely    white  —  the    shrinking     figure 

drew, 

And  murmured  with  unwilling  lips,  "  I  knew 
A  face  like  this  in  years  so  long  gone  by 
They  might  have  never  been,  but  for  the  high 
And  noble  heart  that  fixed  them  there   for  me, 
Firm-planted  in  the  heaven  of  memory. 
Who  art  thou?" 

And  the  boy  looked  sadly  up, 
Then  smiled,  and  took  a  massive  silver  cup 
'Graven  with  quaint  device,  and  set  around 
With    jewels  —  jacinth,    sard,    and    black    pearl 

found 

Rarely  enough  by  divers  and  of  size, 
The  amethyst,  which  heavy  drinkers  prize, 
Coral  and  emerald.     This  rich  cup  he 
From  out  his  girdle  took,  and  on  his  knee 


In  the  King  s  Garden.  9 

Slow-dropping,  lifted  it  to  where 
The  king's  eye  met  its  inner  surface ;  there 
Upon  the  polished  curve  the  monarch  saw  — 
Wonder  submerged  by  a  swift  wave  of  awe  — 
His  own  passed  baby-face,  and  then  the  eyes 
Of  his  dead  mother,  who  with  mild  surprise 
Looked  back  at  him.     And  then  the  mouth 
Of  his  fair  wife  —  pomegranates  from  the  south, 
Fresh  cleft,  were  never  sweeter —  and  the  strife 
Of  nations,  the  fierce  turmoils  of  his  life, 
The  precious  hours,  now  gone,  that  used  to  be 
His  recompense  for  kinghood,  and  the  sea 
Of  bitterness  that  washed  against  his  throne, 
And  the  great  griefs  his  later  years  had  known. 
All  of  his  life  he  saw  there  mirrored  plain, 
And   gazed,   and   gazed   with   mingled   joy    and 

pain, 

And  old  regret,  and  new-born  longing,  and 
A  hundred  varied  feelings.     Yet  the  hand 
That  held   the    cup   nor   trembled   nor   drooped 

down, 

Until  at  last  he  only  saw  his  crown 
Sparkling  against  the  silver,  and  beyond  — 
A  sight  of  grace  indeed  for  maidens  fond  — 


IO  ///  tJtc  Kings  Canlcn. 

The   lad's   pale   face,  with   dark   eyes   fixed   on 

his 

Immovable  as  some  far  planet  is. 
And    the    king    trembled  —  why,  he    could    not 

tell. 

From  distant  towers  he  heard  the  sunset  bell ; 
Above  the  palace  wall  the  white  moon  rose 
And  shed  its  gleam  upon  the  garden  close ; 
A    sea-breeze     stirred    the    brilliant    blossoms 

hung 

On  slender  stems.     The  birds,  with  nests  among 
The  ilex  boughs,  began  their  evening  hymn ; 
And  -lo !  the  royal  sight  was  growing  dim 
From  olden  memories,  that  set  to  tears 
The  music  silenced  in  those  vanished  years. 
So,  stretching  forth  his  hand,  the  monarch  said, 
His  palm  laid  lightly  on  the  golden  head 
Of  the  strange  lad,  "What  art  thou?" 

Who  at  last 
Spake,  fading  with  the  answer, 

"  The  King's  Past." 

So  we,  who  are  not  kings  but  put  away, 
Sadly  enough  sometimes,  each  passing  day 


In  the  King  s  Garden.  1 1 

And  then  forget  it,  feel  a  presence  near 

In  lonely  hours ;  a  voice  falls  on  the  ear 

Melodious,  strange,  yet  half-familiar :  so 

We  turn  and  see  once  more  the  grievous  woe, 

Bright    dreams    made    real,  mistakes,   and   good 

deeds  done 

We  thought  perhaps  were  hid  from  light  of  sun. 
Ah  me  !  well  is  it  that  some  things  there  be 
To  stir  the  placid  deeps  of  memory; 
And,  like  the  king,  through  misty  vistas  vast, 
We  watch  the  resurrection  of  our  past. 


12  My  Birthdays. 


MY   BIRTHDAYS. 

TTOW  like  the  beads  upon  a  rosary  slip 
1    My   birthdays   through   my   fingers !     Each 

one  bears 

Its  own  prayer  with  it,  but,  indeed,  the  prayers 
Pause  at  the  cross,  and  then  upon  my  lip 
Lingers  the  longest  of  them  all  to  sip 
The  fitful  striving  of  my  soul,  that  wears 
My  spirit  with  its  passion  and  despairs 
Of  rising  to  fulfilment. 

Prayers  may  trip 

Sometimes,  however  high  the  soul  is  sent 
Towards  Heaven  with  them ;  and,  alas,  I  think 
Mayhap  I  dwell  upon  my  cross  too  long, 
Noting  its  burden*.     To  be  penitent 
For  sin  is  not  enough  ;  the  heart  must  link 
\\ith  penitence  its  own  triumphal  song. 


My  Birthdays.  13 

Yet  burdens  are  so  heavy,  and  they  eat 

So  oft  into  the  very  heart  of  things 

And  take  the  life  out.     Even  the  mighty  wings 

Of  song  will  droop  beneath  the  burning  heat 

And  struggles  of  the  day. 

These  years  are  sweet 
As  honey  often,  but  they  have  their  stings 
From  those  who  seek  the  sweetness.     Each  one 

clings 

Close  to  my  hands  as  I  its  prayer  repeat. 
Oh,  they  are  few,  as  older  men  count  years, 
So  few,  and  yet  they  held  undone  so  much 
Worthy  the  doing;  therein  lies  the  loss. 
But  oft  I  could  not  see  to  do  for  tears, 
And  now  this  last  one  slips  beneath  my  touch, 
And  once  again  the  prayers   have   reached   the 

cross. 


14  A  Marblchcad  Legend. 


A   MARBLEHEAD   LEGEND. 


to  the  heart  of  the  ocean  there, 
Where  fields  are  green  and  the  rocks   are 
bare, 

And  twittering  sea-birds  beat  the  air 
With  wings  as  restless  as  feet  that  tread 
Its  ghost-haunted  shores,  lies  Marblehead. 

The  fishing-smacks  to  its  bays  come  in, 
And  just  below  are  the  lights  of  Lynn, 
While  long  Nahant  with  its  finger  thin 
Points  always  out  to  the  mystic  place 
On  the  other  side  of  the  ocean's  space. 

In  days  that  were  old  when   these  were  young, 
These  old  gray  houses  with  mosses  hung, 
And  long  ere  yonder  cracked  bell  had  rung 
Its  jubilant  peal  as  men  made  known 
The  hate  they  flung  at  an  earthly  throne; 


A  Marblehead  Legend.  15 

When  clover  grew  where  the  lanes  to-day 

Wind  in  and  out  their  tortuous  way, 

Here  to  the  church  and  there  to  the  bay, — 

A  Spanish  galleon  rode  afar 

Beyond  that  point  with  its  lighthouse  star. 

'Twas  laden  with  riches  heavily, 
And  brave,  strong  men  on  its  decks  trod  free, 
When  the  bride  on  board  came  forth  to  see 
The  rocks  that  glowed  in  the  sunset's  red 
On  the  rough,  dark  shores  of  Marblehead. 

But  night  drew  near,  and  the  pirates  bold 
Swarmed  over  the  vessel,  stern  and  hold, 
And    the   Spaniards    fell    'mid    their    silks    and 

gold; 

While  one  lived  only  —  who  best  had  died  — 
The*  Spanish  admiral's  English  bride. 

They  brought  her  here  to  the  beach  we  tread ; 
They  brought  her  living  and  left  her  dead  — 
The  first  great  sin  upon  Marblehead. 
And  when  the  year  to  that  night  comes  'round, 
In  moonlit  calm  or  the  tempest's  sound, 


1 6  A  Marblcliead  Legend. 

Above  and  over  all  sounds  that  be, 
The  fisherman  in  his  boat  at  sea, 
And  the  maid  that  is  sleeping  peacefully, 
Hear  out  on  the  night  air  loud  and  clear 
A  woman  shrieking  in  pain  and  fear. 

And  do  you  tell  me  it  is  not  so, 
Her  voice  died,  too,  in  the  long  ago? 
You  may  speak  truly,  I  do  not  know. 
But  yet  I  feel  it  were  well  to  think 
Her  voice  still  lives  by  the  water's  brink. 

For  sin  can  never  be  hid  so  deep 
It  shall  not  out  from  its  cover  creep, 
And  ghosts  in  our  hearts  do  never  sleep; 
While  a  man  I  met  this  morning  said 
He  had  heard  her  cries  at  Marblehead. 


From  a  Field.  17 


FROM   A   FIELD. 

TJERE  is  a  field  of  yellow  buttercups, 

Yellow  as  gold,  but  the  wide-roaming  bee 

Passes  them  by,  and  takes  long  lingering   sups 

From  the  thick  flowers  on  yonder  locust-tree. 

And  yet  my  buttercups  they  bend  and  glint 
Beneath  the  soothing  whispers  of  the  breeze, 

Nor  ever  give  to  me  a  single  hint 

Of  why  they  are  neglected  by  the  bees. 

I  take  one  home  and  put  it  in  a  vase, 
A  slender  glass  an  old  Venetian  wrought, 

And  there  the  pretty  blossom  nods  and  sways 
As  if  distressed  by  some  regretful  thought. 

Ah,  no,  I  do  it  wrong !     It  is  to  me 

The  floweret  gently  waves  its  golden  shield, 

Because,  unlike  the  wandering,  tricksy  bee, 
I  find  how  much  of  sweetness  it  can  yield. 


1 8  From  a  Field. 

Like  a  bright  bit  of  sunshine  in  my  room 
It  gleams  from  out  my  precious  little  glass, 

And   I  am  conquered  by  a  meadow-bloom, 
A   gold-capped   priest   who   chanced    my   way 
to  pass. 

For  it  has  settled  all  my  weird  distrust, 
All  my  unrest  it  quiets  by  its  grace  : 

And  grieving  fancies  blow  away  like  dust 
When  the  wild  wind  sweeps  on  in  wanton  race. 

Ah,  little  yellow  blossom  of  the  mead! 

Why  should  you   bloom   and   then   to-morrow 

die? 
I  may  not  know.     I  plucked  you  in  my  need, 

And  what  you  brought  me  none  can  tell  but  I. 

Then  wave  before  me  still  your  shining   shield, 
And  face  me  bravely  who  have   seemed  your 

foe, 

I  pulled  you  ruthlessly  from  yonder  field, 
And  having  filled  your  mission  you  will  go. 

So  I  —  who  fain  would  be  ns  great  and  grand 
As  others  who  have  gone  before  —  must  be 


From  a  Field.  19 

Content  as  you  to  grow  beneath  God's  hand 
In  the  small  field  where  He  has  planted  me. 

I  lay  aside  the  restless  discontent, 

I  let  the  world  that  seeks  for  sweets  go  by,  — 
If  you  fulfilled  your  mission  as  God  meant, 

O  little  blossom,  may  not  sometime  I  ? 


2O  /;/  Arabia. 


IN   ARABIA. 

1 HOOSE  thou  between  !  "  and  to  his  enemy 
The    Arab    chief    a    brawny   hand    dis- 
played, 
Wherein,  like  moonlight  on  a  sullen  sea, 

Gleamed  the  gray  scimetar's  enamelled  blade. 

"Choose  thou  between  death   at   my  hand   and 

thine  ! 
Close    in    my   power,    my    vengeance    I    may 

wreak, 
Yet  hesitate  to  strike.     A  hate  like  mine 

Is    noble    still.      Thou    hast    thy    choosing, — 
speak ! " 

And  Ackbar  stood.     About  him  all  the  band 
That  hailed   his   captor   chieftain,  with   grave 
eyes 


///  Arabia.  21 

His  answer  waited,  while  that  heavy  hand 
Stretched   like    a   bar   between   him    and   the 
skies. 

Straight  in  the  face  before  him  Ackbar  sent 
A  sneer  of  scorn,  and  raised  his  noble  head ; 

"  Strike  !  "  and  the  desert  monarch,  as  content, 
Rehung  the  weapon  at  his  girdle  red. 

Then  Ackbar  nearer  crept  and  lifted  high 
His  arms  toward  the  heaven  so  far  and  blue 

Wherein  the  sunset  rays  began  to  die,  — 
While  o'er  the  band  a  deeper  silence  grew. 

"  Strike !  I  am  ready !  Didst  thou  think  to  see 
A  son  of  Gheva  spill  upon  the  dust 

His  noble  blood  ?  Didst  hope  to  have  my  knee 
Bend  at  thy  feet,  and  with  one  mighty  thrust 

"  The  life  thou  hatest  flee  before  thee  here  ? 

Shame  on  thee !    on  thy  race  !     Art  thou   the 

one 
Who  hast  so  long  his  vengeance  counted  dear  ? 

My  hate  is  greater ;  I  did  strike  thy  son, 


22  ///  Arabia. 

"  Thy  one  son,  Noumid,  dead   before   my  face  : 
And  by  the  swiftest  courser  of  my  stud 

Sent  to   thy  door  his   corpse.     Aye,  one   might 

trace 
Their  flight  across  the  desert  by  his  blood. 

"  Strike  !  for  my  hate  is  greater  than  thy  own  !  " 
But  with  a  frown  the  Arab  moved  away, 

\Yulked  to  a  distant  palm  and  stood  alone, 
With   eyes   that   looked   where   purple   moun- 
tains lay. 

This  for  an  instant :  then  he  turned  again 
Towards  the  place  where  Ackbar  waited  still, 

Walking  as  one  benumbed  with  bitter  pain, 
Or  with  a  hateful  mission  to  fulfil. 

"  Strike,  for  I  hate  thee  ! "   Ackbar  cried   once 

more. 

"  Nay,  but  my  hate  I  cannot  find ! "  said  now 
His  enemy.     "  Thy  freedom  I  restore. 

!  life  were  worse  than  death  to  such    n.« 

thou." 


In  Arabia.  23 

So  with  his  gift  of  life  the  Bedouin  slept 

That  night  untroubled ;  but  when  dawn  broke 
through 

The  purple  East,  and  o'er  his  eyelids  crept 
The  long,  thin  fingers  of  the  light,  he  drew 

A  heavy  breath  and  woke  :  Above  him  shone 
A  lifted  dagger — "Yea,  he  gave  thee  life, 

But  I  give  death !  "  came  in  fierce  undertone. 
And   Ackbar    died.     It   was    dead    Noumid's 
wife. 


24  My  Sailor. 


MY   SAILOR. 

TIE  lay  at  my  side  on  that  eastern  hill, 

My  brave,  sweet  lad  with  the  golden  hair, 
And  gazed  at  the  vessels  which  seemed  to  fill 
The  rippling  breadth  of  the  harbor  there  ; 

The  black-hulled  vessels  from  over  the  sea, 
The  white-sailed  vessels  that  came  and  went. 

"I  am  going  to  sail  away,"  said  he, 

"  To  sail  some  day  to  my  heart's  content ! 

"  I  shall  see  the  waving  of  south-land  palms, 
The  dark,  fierce  fronts  of  the  icebergs  tall, 

And  gather  the  grapes,  as  a  beggar  alms, 
From  vines  on  some  Spanish  convent's  wall." 

Then  he  drew  my  hand  from  beneath  his  chin, 
And  trailed  my  fingers  across  his  lips ; 


My  Sailor.  25 

"  Yes,  we  both  will  sail  from  this  town  of  Lynn 
In    one    of    those    staunch    old    black-prowed 
ships." 

So  one  Summer  evening  his  ship  set  sail 
And  floated  off  in  the  twilight  grim ; 

I  heaped  up  the  vessel  with  blossoms  pale 
And  wept  that  I  could  not  follow  him. 

And  I  cannot  say  that  the  palms  are  there, 
Nor  icy  mountains  he  longed  to  see  ; 

But  I  know  he  sailed  into  lands  more  fair 
And  stronger  arms,  when  he  went  from  me. 

O,  my  brave,  sweet  lad !  how  his  angel  eyes 
Will  gaze  out  over  the  ocean  dim 

That  reaches  from  earth  unto  Paradise, 
Till  I  set  my  sail  and  follow  him. 


26  Two. 


TWO. 

E   loved   two   women ;    one  whose   soul  was 

clean 

As  any  lily  growing  on  its  stalk ; 
And  one  with  glowing  eyes  and  sensuous  mien, 
Who  fired  him  with  her  beauty  and  her  talk. 

The  pure  one  loved  him  to  the  day  he  died, 
But  when  he  died  his  dearest  friend  she  wed. 

The  wanton  from  the  wild  world  drew  aside, 
And  no  man  saw  her  face  till  she  was  dead. 


A  Rhyme  of  Slimmer.  27 


A   RHYME  OF   SUMMER. 

PHE  daisies  nodded  in  the  grass,  the  butter- 
cups were  sleeping, 

And  just  across  the  river  sang  the  farmers  at 
their  reaping ; 

Upon  the  hills,  so  blue  and  far,  the  maple- 
leaves  were  showing 

Their  pallid  beauty  in  the  breeze  that  from  the 
sea  was  blowing. 

A  little  maid  came  through  the  land  with  song 
and  rippling  laughter ; 

The  buttercups  made  way  for  her,  the  daisies 
nodded  after. 

A   strong  young  farmer  saw  her  pause   beside 

the  parting  river; 
She    drew    a    lily   from   its    depth    with   golden 

heart  a-quiver. 


28  A  Rhyme  of  Sinunicr. 

"Thou  art   more  fair  than    lilies   are,"  said   he 

uith  head  uplifted; 
And  threw  a  poppy,  which  the  stream  swift  to 

the  maiden  drifted. 
She  set  the  flowers  within  her  hair,  —  the  red 

and  white  together; 
A  cloud  grew  black  before  the  sun  and  rainy 

was  the  weather. 

He  came  across  the  river  then,  this  farmer, 
from  his  mowing; 

He  heeded  not  the  water's  depth,  he  cared  not 
for  its  flowing. 

"  O  love  !  "  said  he,  "  if  gleaming  sun  and  cloud- 
less skies  o'erlean  us, 

The  river's  barring  width  may  roll  unpassed, 
untried  between  us ; 

But  when  loud  thunder  fills  the  air,  and  clouds 
and  rain  come  over, 

I'd  cross  the  ocean  to  your  side,  —  I  am  no  fair- 
day  lover ! " 

And  so  one  noon  the  village  bells  rang  out 
across  the  river, 


A  Rhyme  of  Summer.  29 

Their  music  set  the  buttercups   and  daisies    all 

a-shiver, 
While  some    one    drew  a   lily  from   the    stream 

so  blithely  flowing, 
And  plucked  a  blood-red  poppy  that   amid   the 

wheat  was  growing ; 
The    maiden    set    them    in   her   hair  — the    red 

and  white  together  — 
With  many  a  smile,  a  tear  or  two,  and  glances 

at  the  weather. 

They  passed  beneath  the    chapel's   shade  —  the 

farmer  and  the  maiden  — 
Where  arches   crossed    above   their  heads,  with 

snowy  blossoms  laden, 
And    in   that   place    of   holy   calm    the    binding 

words  were  spoken ; 
He  in  his  heart  bore  out  the  truth,  she  on  her 

hand  the  token. 
The  years  went  by,  and  some  were  bright   and 

some  were  clouded  over, 
But   ever   stood   he    at   her   side,  —  he   was   no 

fair-day  lover. 


30  A  Song  of  Rain. 


A   SONG   OF  RAIN. 

T^HE  rain  came  over  the  mountain, 

From  a  little  town  beyond, 
To  sprinkle  the  dust  in  the  roadway, 
And  the  lilies  in  the  pond. 

From  the  clover-sweetened  meadow 
The  kine  went  up  to  the  shed, 

As  the  lightning  flashed  through  heaven, 
And  the  o'erfilled  brooklet  spread. 

The  buttercups  bent  and  shivered, 
While  stricken  leaves  from  the  tree 

Went  sailing  down  to  the  river, 
And  thence  to  the  mighty  sea. 

The  rain  passed  on  to  the  city, 
And  the  clear  blue  sky  once  more 


A   Song  of  Rain.  3 1 

Stretched  out  in  its  tranquil  beauty 
Above  the  sea  and  the  shore. 

The  cows  went  back  to  the  clover, 
While  the  children  from  the  school 

Ran  merrily  over  the  highway 
For  the  lilies  in  the  pool. 

The  rain  of  sorrow  came  over 

Some  distant  hills  in  my  life, 
And  the  rolling  of  its  thunder 

Stirred  a  heart's  rebellious  strife. 

I  had  not  patience  to  shelter 
Myself  till  the  storm  passed  by 

In  the  refuge  of  God's  promise, 
In  the  guiding  of  His  eye. 

But  the  rain  in  time  went  over 

To  some  other  life  beyond, 
And  the  warm,  bright  sunlight  strengthened 

The  power  of  loving's  bond. 

To  be  sure,  the  storm  had  beaten 
Some  few  frail  twigs  from  my  trees, 


32  A  Song  of  Rain. 

And  I  saw  them  pass  my  reaching 
In  the  shoreless  stretch  of  seas. 


But  I  learned  which  boughs  were  strongest, 
Which  blossoms  were  brave  to  bear ; 

While  a  richer  incense  sweetened 
The  cleansed  and  freshened  air. 

And  yet,  and  yet  I  must  wonder, 
If  the  storm  should  come  again, 

Have  I  learned  to  walk  with  patience 
Through  its  tumult  and  its  pain  ? 

And  yet,  and  yet  I  must  wonder, 
Would  I  care  to  find  the  sweet, 

If  to  gain  its  fullest  fragrance 
I  must  walk  with  aching  feet? 

Ah,  God !   shall  I  pass  with  meekness, 

If  the  bitter  rain  comes  down, 
From  my  bloom-sweet  field  of  living 

To  some  refuge  bare  and  brown? 


Failure.  33 


FAILURE. 

T   AM  so  weary  of  it  all ;    and  yet 

See    how  my  hands    are   bleeding   with   the 

strain 

Of  trying  to  be  brave,  to  conquer  pain 
And  sorrow ;   yea,  and  trying  to  forget, 
That  is  the  hardest  of  them  all.     I  let 

The  sleet  and  snow  blow  over  me,  the  rain 
And  roses  of  the  Summer  that  would  fain 
With  sweet  caresses  pay  my  sweet  love's  debt. 
I  cry  to  heaven  as  if  there  were  some  spot 
Through   which   my  pain    and   passion   might 

be  heard; 

But  all  must  go  for  naught.     No  seraph  band 
Comforts  or  helps  me.     If  I  pray  or  not, 

'Tis  all  the  same ;    no   angel   heart    is  stirred 
To  bring  me   balm,  nor  does    Christ   move 
His  hand. 


34  On  an  Antique  Cainco. 


ON  AN   ANTIQUE  CAMEO. 

ARVEN  in  sard,  and  quite  as  chastely  cold 
As   the    deep    stone,    a   woman's    face,    a 

Greek, 

Or,  mayhap,  Roman.     Gods  !  if  it  could  speak  — 
This    red-brown  gem  —  what    stories    might   be 

told 

Of  the  old  time  when  even  slaves  were  bold, 
And  weakness  only  lay  in  being  weak 
Of  nerve  and  muscle.     Some  patrician  cheek 
Lent  for  the  jewel's  grace  its  soft  sweet  mould, 
The   man   who    carved   it    may   have    won    him 

fame 

Out  of   this   deft,  clear   limning,  and  the   maid, 
(Or  was  she  matron?)  it  were  like  to  be 
Her  regal  face  was  than  her  blood  and  name 
Less  regal.     Now  a  tossing  leaflet's  shade 
Is  more  substantial  than  their  memory. 


Of  Love.  35 


OF   LOVE. 

'"TO    meet    thee?     Why,   to    meet    thee    is    to 

draw 

Long  inward  breaths  of  something  more  akin 
To  that  great  strength   of   strengths    my  soul 

would  win 

Than  I  have  known  —  to  learn  to  love  the  law 
That  governs  loving.     Faith !    I  never  saw 
Thy  face  but  that  I  read  therein 
How  much  I  love  thee,  and  it  were  a  sin 
To  stifle  love  that  has  no  fleck  nor  flaw. 
Love  grows  so  like  the   flower  in  yonder  mead 
That   no    man   ever   sowed,    that    God's    own 

hand 

Planted  and  nourished  with  His  sun  and  rain. 

So  true  love  grows.     And,  if  thou  hast  no  need 

Of  present  love,  still  here  for  thee  doth  stand 

Love  in  full  blossom,  bred  of  joy  and  pain. 


36  To  be  Dead. 


TO   BE   DEAD. 

V\7HAT  is  it   to   be   dead?     I   think   that   I, 
\Yhen  I  am  dead,  shall  know  no  more  of 

pain, 

Shall  still  be  glad  in  sunshine  or  in  rain ; 
May,  at  my  mood,  unto  the  ones  who  lie 
Fast  bound  in  sleep  and  whom  I  love,  draw 

nigh 

And  nestle  close,  and  kiss  and  kiss  again 
The  sweet  pink  lips ;  or  when  the  sunbeams 

wane 

And  soft  stars  shine  serenely  in  the  sky, 
With  veiling  vapors  o'er  my  spirit  face, 
And  feet  in  silence  shod,  I  may  as  now 
Glide  through  the  rooms  where   my  small  work 

was  done. 

And  those  who  sit  within  that  haunted  place 
Shall  say,  "  How  near  to  us  he  is !  "     And  how 
The  dear,  sad  souls  will  long  to  see  the  sun ! 


The  Passing  of  Summer.  37 


THE   PASSING   OF   SUMMER. 

O  HE  gathers  up  her  robes  of  green  and  gold, 
The   fair,  sweet    Summer,   and   across   the 

land 

We  see  her  go,  with  outward-reaching  hand 
Whose  magic  spreads  its  beauties  manifold 
Along  the  region  by  her  sway  controlled. 

The    trees,   o'erhung  with    gorgeous    banners, 

stand 

To  see  her  pass  them  with  a  last  command, 
While  all  the  world  is  draped  in  splendor  bold. 

She  passes  onward,  from  the  lowlands  first, 
Then  lays  a  reverent  touch  on  every  hill, 

A  smile  of  promise  lighting  up  her  face ; 
The  brooks  are  fain  to  quench  her  fateful  thirst, 
And  glowing  carpets  line  her  roadway  still, 
The    splendid    queen    departing    from    her 
place. 


38  A  Portrait. 


A   PORTRAIT. 

TN  the  white  sweetness  of  her  dimpled  chin 
The   pink   points   of    her  perfumed    ringers 

press, 

And  'round  her  tremulous  mouth's   loveliness 
The  tears  and  smiles  a  sudden  strife  begin: 
First  one  and  then  the  other  seems  to  win : 
And  o'er  her  drooping  eyes  a  golden  tress 
Falls  down  to  hide  what  else  they  might  con- 
fess 

Their  blue-veined  lids  are  striving  to  shut  in. 
The  yellow  pearls  that  bind  her  throat  about 
\Vith  her  pale,  bosom's  throbbing  rise  or  fall  : 
The   while  her   thoughts    like    carrier-doves 

have  fled 

To  that  far  land  where  armies  clash  and  shout, 
And  where,  beyond   love's    reach,  a  soldier  tall 
With   staring  eyes   and   broken   sword  lies 
dead. 


Sonnet.  39 


SONNET. 

IT  OW  can  we  say  one  man  has  lived  in  vain  ? 

'    Nay !    every  soul  that  panteth  into  life 
Is  wonderful,  because  it  hath  had  strife 
With  the  great  Death,  and  conquered,  and  shall 

reign 

Somewhere  eternally,  and  throbs  of  pain 
Have  purified  it.     Yea,  the  earth  is  rife 
With  monarchs  who  have  battled  to  the  knife 
And  won  their  kingdoms,  yet  are  free  from  stain. 
Behold  !  the  meanest  dolt  bears  the  same  spark 
In  him  that  triple-crowned  genius  bears, 
And   fights   and  wins   the   same.     We   have   no 

rule 

By  which  to  measure  men,  but  in  the  dark 
Of  our  own  ignorance  divide  the  tares 
From  wheat,  and  choose  the  teachers  from  the 

school. 


4O  Her  Face. 


HER  FACE. 

T  WOULD  not  look  upon  thy  face  again, 
Nor  now  nor  ever,  though  it  was  as  sweet 
As  new-blown  rose  to  me  when  it  would  greet 

My  eyes  in  that  old  time  of  love-sick  pain. 

0  tender  face !   how  often  have  I  lain 

And  on  thee  gazed  in  hours  so  passing  fleet, 
Consumed  by  all  the  fire  of  passion's  heat; 
And  now  I  fear  thee  more  than  woe  and  bane. 

1  would  not  look  upon  thy  face,  lest  I 
Might  love  it  once  again  ;   for  know  I  well 

My  greatest  weakness  centres  in  that  face, 
That  dear,  sweet  face,  which,  till  some   time   I 

die, 

I  have  forsworn  to  love.     And  heaven  or  hell 
Will   be   to   find   or  miss   thee   in   Death's 
space. 


Patience.  41 


PATIENCE. 

A     SWEET-FACED  maiden  calm  as  marble  is, 

But  powerful  to  stand  against  the  blows 
Of  an  unyielding  Fate.     No  lustre  glows 
From  out  her  eyes  save  that  of  peace,  no  kiss 
Of  passion  ever  touched  her  lips  I  wis, 

Though  their  full  curve  is  dewy  as  the  rose 
That,  coloring  mid-summer,  buds  and  blows  : 
Albeit  they  are  less  tremulous  than  this. 
.She  teaches  to  endure,  she  lays  a  hand 

Both  firm  and  cool  upon  the  wounded  heart, 
And  then  her  soft  breath  fans   the   heated 

brow, 

And  every  quivering  nerve  at  her  command 
Is  still. 

O  Patience  !   why  did'st  thou  depart 
Ere  I  had  learned  to  be  as  calm  as  thou? 


42  Questionings. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

\  17 HERE  waits  the  woman  I   shall   one   day 

claim 

The  right  to  call  my  own,  the  one  whom  I 
Shall    love  with   that  great  love  which,  till  I 

die, 

Will  feed  my  heart  with  its  enduring  flame? 
For  I,  who  have  known  many  women,  blame 
The  Fate  which  has  not  given  me  to  lie 
Prostrate  with  love  that  should  be  grand  and 

high, 

A  fact,  a  conscious  truth,  and  no  mere  name. 
And  where  is  growing,  too,  the  laurel  bough 
That  all  my  life  long  I  have  felt  was  mine? 
And  where  is  the  content  my  soul  has  said 
Should   one   day  come   to   it?     And   when   and 

how, 

And  why  and  what?     Who   plants   the    seed- 
ling fine 

Whose    blossom    I    shall    hold   when    I    am 
dead  ? 


Questionings.  43 

O  foolish  questions  !     O  unwise  unrest ! 
Who  answers  me  ?     I  only  have  to  go, 
Day  after  day,  along  my  way,  and  know 
That  all  things  come  in  turn,  as  it  is  best : 
To  simply  live  is  simply  to  be  blest ; 
And  doubtless  he  is  like  to  overthrow 
His  builded  hopes  who  strives  to  peer  below 
The  dim  foundations,  which,  were  all  confest, 
Rise  only  upon  vain  imaginings, 

Or,  haply,  on  some  whisper  of  his  Fate, 
Half-heard  in  some  strange  silence.     Let 

all  be 

As  it  shall  come :  nor  let  bright  Fancy's  wings 
Your  fond  desires  so  foolishly  elate 

That  what  shall  come  shall  come  too  sud- 
denly. 


44  A  Glove. 


A   GLOVE. 

A  H,  yesterday  I  found  a  glove 

Grown  shabby,  full  of  tiny  rips, 
But  dear  to  me  because  my  love 

Once  through  it  thrust  her  finger-tips. 

A  glove  one  would  not  care  to  see 
Upon  his  arm  in  public  street ; 

Yet  here  I  own  there  is  for  me 
No  relic  in  the  world  more  sweet. 

A  faint,  far  scent  of  lavender 

Steals  from  it,  as  the  clover  smelt 

When  through  the  fields  I  walked  with  her 
And  plucked  the  blossoms  for  her  belt. 

Faith  !   but  I  loved  the  little  hand 
That  used  to  wear  this  time-stained  thing! 


A  Glove.  45 

Its  slightest  gesture  of  command 
Would  set  my  glad  heart  fluttering. 

Or  if  it  touched  my  finger,  so, 

Or  smoothed  my  hair — why  should  I  speak 
Of  those  old  days?     It  makes,  you  know, 

The  tears  brim  over  on  my  cheek. 

Poor  stained,  worn-out,  long-wristed  glove ! 

I  think  it  almost  understands 
That  reverently  and  with  love 

I  hold  it  in  my  trembling  hands. 

And  that  it  is  so  dear  to  me, 

With  its  old  fragrance,  far  and  faint, 

Because  my  mother  wore  it,  she, — 

On  earth  my  love,  in  Heaven  my  saint. 


46  Golden-Rod  and  Asters. 


GOLDEN-ROD   AND   ASTERS. 

OOME  gaudy   prince    has   stayed   here   over- 

night : 
For    look,    the    road-side    gleams    in    splendor 

bright 
With  gold-embroidered  plumes  that  decked   his 

train, 

While  stars  of  purple  amethyst,  like  rain, 
Have  fallen  from  his  robes. 

Mayhap  he  grew 

Weary  of  rioting,  and  straightway  threw 
His  gorgeousness  away;  then,  smiling,  went 
Clad  in  humility  and  sweet  content, 
With  tender  lips  and  eyes,  and  open  palms, 
To  ask  for  and,  receiving,  to  give  alms; 
While  the  rich  garments  that  he  laid  aside  — 
Symbols  of  earthly  glory  and  of  pride  — 
The  mighty  grace  of  some  strange  sylvan  god 
Has  changed  to  asters  and  to  golden-rod. 


At  Evening. 


AT   EVENING. 

T  TPON  the  hills  the  sunset  glories  lie, 

The  amaranth,  the  crimson  and  the  gold. 
Beside  the  sinuous  brook  that  ripples  by, 
The   dark,    damp   ferns    their  feathery   grace 
unfold. 

The  little  yellow  blossom  of  the  field, 
That  shone  a  jewel  in  the  splendid  day, 

Holds  one  small  dew-drop  in  its  bosom  sealed, 
And  by  to-morrow  will  have  passed  away. 

The  village  windows  gleam  with  gorgeous  light, 
And  in  the  east  a  purple  cloud  hangs  low, 

A  few  brown  birds  sing  out  their  hymn  to  night 
On  shadowy  boughs  —  then  spread  their  wings 
and  go. 

Along  the  road  the  men  that  sow  and  reap 
With  heavy  footsteps  stir  the  whitened  dust. 


48  At 


And  up  the  sky  —  illimitable  steep  — 

The  moon  climbs  slowly  to  her  sacred   trust. 

Oh,  grand,  strange  trust  !  to  be  a  light  to  those 
Who  lie  all  night  impatient  for  the  morn, 

\Yhen  the  fresh  fragrance  rises  from  the  rose, 
And  the  sweet  dew  begems  the  sharpest  thorn. 


The   stars,    those   sleepless   eyes,    peer   through 

the  chinks 
That  pierce  the  shrouding  darkness  of  night's 

walls. 
Each    thirsty    flower    its    draught    of    dampness 

drinks, 
And  here  and  there  a  perfumed  petal  falls. 

Then  from  the  east  a  salty  breath  comes  up 
To  cool  the  heated  bosom  of  the  world, 

It  lays  its  lip  upon  the  lily's  cup, 

Whose   white,   soft   edge   its    kiss    leaves    all 
empearled. 

And  upward  to  the  splendor  of  the  stars 
The  fragrant  moisture  rises  like  a  veil. 


At  Evening.  49 

Night    shuts    its    gate    and    drops    the     heavy 

bars, 

And  somewhere  morning  waits,  supreme   and 
pale. 


50  She  and  L 


SHE  AND   I. 


A  ND  I  said,  "  She  is  dead,  I  could  not  brook 
Again  on  that  marvellous  face  to  look." 


But  they  took  my  hand  and  they  led  me  in, 
And  left  me  alone  with  my  nearest  kin. 

Once  again  alone  in  that  silent  place, 
My  beautiful  dead  and  I,  face  to  face. 

And  I  could  not  speak,  and  I  could  not  stir, 
But  I  stood  and  with  love  I  looked  on  her. 

With   love,  and  with   rapture,  and   strange   sur- 
prise 
I  looked  on  the  lips  and  the  close-shut  eyes; 

On  the  perfect  rest  and  the  calm  content 
And  the  happiness  in  her  features  blent, 


She  and  L  •  51 

And  the  thin  white  hands  that  had  wrought  so 

much, 
Now  nerveless  to  kisses  or  fevered  touch. 

My  beautiful  dead  who  had  known  the  strife, 
The  pain,  and  the  sorrow  that  we  call  Life. 

Who  had  never  faltered  beneath  her  cross, 
Nor  murmured  when  loss  followed  swift  on  loss. 

And  the  smile  that  sweetened  her  lips  alway 
Lay  light  on  her  Heaven-closed  mouth  that  day. 

I  smoothed  from  her  hair  a  silver  thread, 
And  I  wept,  but  I  could  not  think  her  dead. 

I  felt,  with  a  wonder  too  deep  for  speech, 
She  could  tell  what  only  the  angels  teach. 

And  down  over  her  mouth  I  leaned  my  ear, 
Lest   there    might   be    something   I    should    not 
hear. 

Then  out  from  the  silence  between  us  stole 
A  message  that  reached  to  my  inmost  soul. 


52  She  a  fid  I. 

"Why  weep  you  to-day  who  have  wept  before 
That  the  road  was  rough  I  must   journey  o'er? 

"  Why  mourn  that  my  lips  can  answer  you  not 
When  anguish  and  sorrow  are  both  forgot  ? 

"Behold,  all  my  life  I  have  longed  for  rest, — 
Yea,  e'en  when  I  held  you  upon  my  breast. 

"And  now  that  I  lie  in  a  breathless  sleep, 
Instead  of  rejoicing  you  sigh  and  weep. 

"  My  dearest,  I  know  that  you  would  not  break  — 
If  you  could  —  my  slumber  and  have  me  wake. 

"For  though   life   was  full   of   the   things   that 

bless, 
I  have  never  till  now  known  happiness." 

Then  I  dried  my  tears,  and  with  lifted  head 
I  left  my  mother,  my  beautiful  dead. 


The  Deserted  House.  53 


THE   DESERTED   HOUSE. 

T  T IGH  on  the  headland  it  stands, 

The    woodbine    clasps    it   with    tremulous 
hands, 

And    the    scarlet   leaves    through  the   windows 
blow, 

And  the  waves  are  fierce  below. 

Bare  and  dismantled  it  is; 
The  sunlight  creeps  in  through  the  crevices 
And  over  the  stucco  and  wainscot  plays 
As  it  used  in  other  days. 

But  then  its  glimmering  tone 

Through  curtains  of  muslin  and  lace-work  shone 

Over  satin-bound  chairs  and  draperies, 

And  pallid  piano-keys. 

And  now  the  casements  are  clear 

Of  all  save  the  tendrils  that  flutter  here, 


54  The  Deserted  House. 

Or  some  weary  bird  which,  questioning  flies 
To  the  sill  with  mild  surprise. 

The  rain  has  soddened  the  floors, 
A  wandering  touch  on  the  creaking  doors 
And  they  yield,  while  my  feet  are  free  to  go 
All  over  the  mansion  low. 

The  walls  they  will  tell  no  tale 
Of  laughter  and  cheer,  or  of  mournful  wail; 
Yet  one  cannot  speak  in  this  house  of  gloom 
As  he  could  in  modern  room. 

So  I  press  the  keyless  locks, 
And  standing  again  on  the  headland  rocks 
Look  over  the  sea  that  reaches  so  far 
With  neither  limit  nor  bar. 

There  is  the  wasting  away, 

Art  given  over  to  blight  and  decay; 

Here  is  the  freedom  of  God,  with  the  great 

Glory  of  Nature's  estate. 

Why  ever  wonder  again 

What  mingled  story  of  pleasure  and  pain 


The  Deserted  House.  55 

Was  written  within  the  bond  of  these  walls 
Where  the  sunlight  faints  and  falls  ? 

Why  question  ?     It  stands,  has  stood 
In  its  place  for  evil  alone  or  good, 
And  naught  that  is  left  in  power  of  man 
Can  lighten  desertion's  ban. 

I  pass  down  the  cliff  :   no  more 
Shall  my  fingers  move  the  shivering  door, 
No  soul  has  the  solemn  right  to  intrude 
On  such  ancient  solitude. 

Sometime  it  will  fall  and  lie 
Unheeded  by  thought  or  by  human  eye,  • 
While  woodbine,  and  asters,  and  golden-rod 
May  shield  it  from  all  but  God. 


56  The  Statue  in  tlic   Wood. 


THE   STATUE  IN  THE  WOOD. 

'"THERE  was  a  statue  standing  in  a  wood, 

A  gracious  statue  of  a  youth  divine 
Who  lightly  poised  upon  one  arched  foot  stood, 
As  though  prepared  to  quit  that  leafy  shrine. 

I  marvelled  at  the  cunning  artist's  skill 

Who    so    could    limn    each    muscle,   feature, 
grace : 

Even  -the  marble  semblance  of  a  hill 

Was  chiselled  carefully  as  the  sweet  face. 

And  then  I  saw  a  little  trembling  vine 

That  clung  with  slight  hold  to  the   columned 

base, 
And   sent   its   small   shoots    clambering    toward 

the  fine, 

Nude  shape,  whose  beauty  peopled  that  dull 
place. 


The  Statue  in  the  Wood.  57 

I  stood  enrapt,  and  for  the  moment  knew 
The  passion  that  those  ancient  heathen  felt, 

Who  formed  their  idols  rich  in  shape  and  hue 
And  down  before  the  rare  perfection  knelt. 

Yea,  I  admired,  heart  and  soul,  and  went ;  — 
And  all  day  long,  and  still  for  many  days, 

My  sense  was  strong  with  a  supreme  content, 
And   all   my   thoughts   turned   backward    still 
to  praise. 

Years  afterward  I   journeyed  through  that  land 
Where    Summer    smiles    a   half   year    round, 
once  more, 

And  so  I  thought  again  to  go  and  stand 
Before  the  statue  as  in  days  of  yore. 

With  hasty  steps  I  passed  the  woodland  through, 
Came  to  the  spot  and  paused,  —  before  me  still 

The  golden  sunlight  shone  and  song-birds  flew, 
But  vacant  was  the  chiselled,  marble  hill. 

Prostrate  before  the  pedestal  it  lay, 

That    god-like    form,    and     round    about    it 
clung 


58  The  Statue  in  the    Wood. 

The  tendrils  of  the  little  vine  ahvay, 

And  on  the  perfect  limbs  dark  mosses  hung. 

Tears  filled  my  eyes.     "Aye,  man   may  do   his 
best 

In  love  and  art,  and  sanctify  a  shrine ! 
But  Nature  holds  the  power  within  her  breast 

To  overthrow  his  efforts  by  a  vine. 

"And  hand-created  idols  only  serve 

To    point    man's    follies    homeward    to    his 
heart." 

And  still  that  statue,  grand  in  line  and  curve, 
Lies  prostrate  there,  a  sacrifice  of  art. 


Forgotten.  59 


FORGOTTEN. 

A  MONG  some  cast-off  trinkets  laid  away 
Within  a  curious  box  of  Eastern  make, 
I  found  a  sandal  casket  closed  to-day, 
Which  had  been  quite  forgotten  since  that  May 
I  kissed  the  contents  for  a  dead  boy's   sake. 

Aye  !  and  I  wept,  and  bitter  tears  they  were, 
Although    my    memory    held    the    things    so 

slight : 
For  the    brown    scentless    bloom    had    nestled 

there 

Above  his  still  heart,  and  the  wisp  of  hair 
Had  shaded  brows  forever  hid  from  sight. 

I  thought  that  day  I  never  could  forget 

How  well  I  loved  him,  as  I  sorrowed  so  : 
But  still,  although  my  eyes  have  oft  been  wet, 
It  has  not  been  that  we  no  more  have  met, 
Nor  for  his  lying  thus  beneath  the  snow. 


60  Forgotten. 

Ah!  live  and  love,  then  die  and  be  forgot, 

So  roll  the  cycles  of  our  years  away; 
Nor  can  we  hope  to  find  a  single  spot 
Wherein  our  memories  shall  fail  to  blot, 
And  blur,  and  be  effaced  some  sunny  day. 

Man's  love  is  nothing!  mind  you,  I  who  speak 

Do  love  as  strongly  as  man  ever  loved : 
But  oh !  'twere  foolishness  to  think  one  cheek 
Shall  lose  its  glow  forever,  when  I  seek 
That  haven   our  gross   knowledge   ne'er  has 
proved. 

Yet  I  who  sing  this  know  that  there  are   those 
Who  love  me  better  than  aught  else  on  earth, 

And  follow  me  with  prayers  till  daylights  close ; 

But  when  I  pass  the  reach  of  human  throes, 
I  know  as  well  they  will  forget  my  birth. 

So  little  box  of  sandal  and  of  pearl, 

An  o'er-wise  lesson  you  have  taught  to-day 
To  me  who  had  forgotten  flower  and  curl, 
Which,  wild  with  grief  as  any  love-lorn  girl, 
Within  your  case  that  Spring  I  laid  away. 


Forgotten.  6 1 

I  had  forgot !  poor  foolish  words  are  these 

To  offer  at  the  dust-bound  shrine  I  raised 
To  him  I  loved,  and  where  upon  my  knees 
I  vowed,  at  each  recurring  May,  though  seas 
Should    intervene,    to    mourn    him    whom    I 
praised. 

I  had  forgot !  well,  let  it  be  so !  I 

Shall  gain  no  other  epitaph  than  this. 
Let  those  who  love  me  best  so  pass  me  by 
With   these   three  words  while   gazing  where    I 

lie, 
I  had  forgot !  'tis  better  so,  I  wis. 


62  Remembered. 


REMEMBERED. 

TVTAY,  men  have   been  who   died   to   life   and 
me ; 

And  looking  back,  the  memory  of  all 
The  love  I  felt  for  them,  the  tears  as  free 
As  rain  in  autumn,  seem  a  fantasy 

Behind  the  years  that  fall. 

But  him!  I  have  not  looked  upon  his  face 
For   years,    indeed,    and    far   from    mine    his 

way; 
Yet   just    as    well    through   time    and   distance' 

space 

I  can  perceive  the  olden,  loving  grace, 
As  he  were  here  to-day. 

He  lives  within  my  world ;  however  dim 

My    sight    might    grow,    however  closed   my 
ears, 


Remembered.  63 

I  still  could  feel  his  warm  lip  on  the  brim 
Of  life's  full  goblet,  and  I  know  from  him 
No  lapse  could  hide  my  tears. 

Oh,  life  is  love  and  love  is  life,  be  sure ! 

And   once   loved,   always   must   that   love   be 

strong ; 

Through  every  wave  of  strife  it  will  endure, 
From  every  bitter  battle  come  more  pure, 

And  stand  in  right  or  wrong. 

Death  only,  as  in  pity,  throws  a  veil 
Across  the  burning  of  its  mighty  flame ; 

Death   only  makes   the   crimson   strength  grow 
pale; 

Before  death,  only,  love  will  ever  quail, 
And  not  for  grief  or  shame. 

Oh,  not  because  I  loved  this  man  the  best 

Do  I  remember  all  his  gracious  ways ! 
The  man  I  had  forgotten  in  his  rest 
Held  just  as  great  a  place  within  my  breast, 
And  garnered  more  my  praise. 


64  Remembered. 

But  he  is  safe.     If  we  remembered  such 

As  pass  beyond  us,  with  our  present  love, 
If  all  day  long  we  hungered  for  their  touch, 
AYould  not  the  burden  weary  us  overmuch? 
Would  not  life  endless  prove  ? 

Wlien  time  comes  to  it,  all  will  be  made  plain 
For  them,  for   us.     But   those  who   still   may 
tread 

This  earth  we  know,  can  find  remembrance  gain ; 

Forge tfulness  for  them  were  greater  pain 
Than  memory  for  the  dead. 

Then  blame  me  not,  because  for  him  who  lies 

Beneath  the  snow  I  have  no  grieving  tear ; 
\Yhile  for  my  friend  who  looks  on  foreign  skies 
I  wait  and  long.     The  dead  one  is  so  wise 
He  knows  how  passing  dear 

He  was  to  me  ;  and  he  who  lives  can  feel 
My   love    about   him,    though   we   should    not 

speak 

Each  unto  each  for  years.     One  has  the  weal 
Of  death  ;  the  other  bears  the  binding  seal 
Of  life — and  life  is  weak: 


A  Lock  of  Hair.  65 


A   LOCK   OF   HAIR. 

TIER  eyes  were  full  of  truth  and  light, 
'    Her  slender  hands  were  very  white, 
Her  pretty  voice  was  clear  and  strong, 
And  often  trembled  on  the  air 
In  some  old-fashioned  sacred  song, 
While  I  —  I  smoothed  her  fragrant  hair. 

She  used  to  wear  this  in  a  braid  — 

My  dainty,  clear-complexioned  maid  — 

A  bright  brown  braid,  with  gleams  of  gold ; 

And  oh !  her  face,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

I  loved  it  with  a  love  untold; 

And  now  I  love  this  lock  of  hair. 

Oh  !  beautiful  she  was,  and  true, 
And  where  the  lovely  lilacs  grew 
I  used  to  watch  her  at  her  play; 
And  now  she  sleeps  forever  there, 


66  A  Lock  of  Hair. 

Where  sunbeams  lie  the  livelong  day, 
As  once  they  glimmered  in  this  hair. 

I  dare  not  pass  her  place  of  rest, 

Where  birds  that  loved  her  make  their  nest; 

I  think  my  heart  would  break,  and  I 

Should  never  say  another  prayer 

With  faith  that  He  would  hear  my  cry, 

Who  left  me  just  this  lock  of  hair. 

My  little  sister,  far  from  me, 

My  darling  dark-eyed  Emily ! 

How  much  doth  lie  between  us  two, 

How  much  of  distance,  time  and  care! 

Or  are  these  nothing  more  to  you 

Than  is  this  curling  lock  of  hair? 

Sweet !  surely  God  is  good,  and  so 
Our  hearts  and  lips  can  wait  to  know 
How  some  day,  somewhere,  they  shall  meet 
And  find  the  answer  to  their  prayer. 
Yes,  some  time  God  will  answer,  sweet, 
My  cry  above  this  lock  of  hair! 


The  Muezzin.  67 


THE   MUEZZIN. 

purple  hills  and  azure  skies, 
Tall,  slender  palms,  that  rise  and  rise 
In  plume-like  masses  towards  the  sun : 
While  narrow  streamlets  curve  and  run 
As  blue  as  Leda's  lovely  eyes. 

Along  the  lofty  parapet 

A  swarth  muezzin  paces  yet, 

Although  the  morning  call  to  prayer 
Long  since  was  sounded  on  the  air, 

And  hours  must  pass  ere  day  will  set. 

He  leans  and  looks  and  listens.     Far 
Below  him,  like  a  fallen  star, 

A  gilded  sandal  lies  unbound 

From  some  swift  foot  that  spurned  the  ground 
Where  the  great  mosque's  long  shadows  are. 


68  The  Muezzin. 

lie  holds  his  robe  across  his  face, 
And  creeping  on  from  space  to  space, 
From  stair  to  stair  in  columned  line, 
He  passes  from  the  prophet's  shrine 
And  lifts  the  sandal  from  its  place. 

•         ••••••          • 

What  dark  muezzin  ever  knew 
Such  eyes  —  like  iris  moist  with  dew?  — 
What  drunken  bee  e'er  took  his  sips 
From  roses  sweet  as  Leda's  lips? 
Those  lips  that  trembled  as  she  flew. 

First  woman  in  the  minaret, 
She  came  for  love  of  Ashtoblet, 

And  dropped  her  sandal  as  she  fled, 
While  slept  the  city  like  the  dead 
Who  nor  remember  nor  forget. 

And  once  again  the  sunset's  glare, 
And  once  again  the  call  to  prayer, 
And  once  again  Night  throws  her  veil 
About  the  lives  that  faint  and  fail, 
And  Ashtoblet  upon  the  stair. 


The  Muezzin.  69 

No  call  is  sounded  from  his  post 
When  pallid  Morning  like  a  ghost 

Comes  stealing  through  the  city's  gate, 
And  for  a  while  the  people  wait 
About  the  mosque,  a  silent  host. 

Then  one,  with  finger  at  his  lip 
And  heavy  feet  that  pause  and  trip 
And  eyes  that  scarcely  see  for  fright, 
Comes  stumbling  on  in  woful  plight 
And  guides  to  where  the  fountains  drip. 

There  the  muezzin  Ashtoblet 

Lies  dead  on  banks  of  violet, 

One  red  line  on  his  dusky  throat : 
And  to  his  heart,  where  all  may  note, 

He  holds  a  gilded  sandal  yet. 


7O  ///  the  Rain. 


IN   THE   RAIN. 

'"THE  black  clouds  roll  across  the  sun, 
Their  shadows  darken  all  the  grass: 
The  songs  the  sweet  birds  sang  are  done, 
And  on  wide  wings  the  minstrels  pass. 

There  comes  a  sudden  sheet  of  rain 

That  beats  the  tender  field-flowers  down, 

And  in  the  narrow  fragrant  lane 

The  white  road  turns  a  muddy  brown. 

And  then  the  clouds  roll  slowly  back, 
The  sun  again  shines  fierce  and  hot, 

The  cows  come  down  the  sodden  track 
And  munch  the  wet  grass  in  the  lot. 

The  flowers  their  moistened  faces  raise, 
The  wet  leaves  in  the  sunbeams  gleam, 

The  birds,  refreshed,  resume  their  lays, 
The  children  paddle  in  the  stream. 


In  the  Ram.  71 

How  like  to  life  such  days  as  this ! 

The  brightness  and  the  storm  of  tears ; 
So  much  to  gain,  so  much  to  miss, 

The  sudden  overflow  of  fears. 

Yet  though  the  song  is  hushed  a  while, 
We  know  'twill  break  forth  by-and-by, 

We  know  behind  the  clouds  the  smile 
Of  radiant  glory  still  doth  lie. 

Oh,  let  the  sudden  storm  beat  low 
Our  tenderest  blossoms  as  it  may ! 

And  let  our  sweetest  song-birds  go, 
They  will  return  some  other  day. 

We  shall  forget  the  sheeted  rain 

And  all  that  looks  so  dark  and  drear, 

Just  as  we  have  forgot  the  pain 

That  seemed  so  hard  to  us  last  year. 


72  On  the  Bridge. 


ON   THE   BRIDGE. 
(FLORENCE,  1645.) 

urT*ELL  me,  my  friend  —  you  loved  him  well, 

I  know, 

But  time  enough  has  passed  to  kill  your  woe, 
Or  so  at  least  to  dull  it,  you  may  speak 
His  cherished  name  and  not  bedew  your  cheek 
With  tears  —  I  pray,  how  did  Edgardo  die  ? 
Is  it  the  truth,  when  with  averted  eye, 
With  crimson  face  and  fingers  parted  wide, 
Men  murmur  softly,  'Twas  in  shame  he  died, 
In  wanton  rankness?" 

"  He  who  said  it  lied  ! 

Were  it  the  king  himself,  or  courtier,  priest, 
Or  cup-mad  brawler  at  a  midnight  feast, 
He  lied  most  foully!     Yes,  I  loved   my  friend; 
Saw  him  by  night  and  day,  and  did  attend 
Such  gay  delights  as  he  partook  of ;  he 
Was  part  and  soul  of  perfect  purity; 


On  the  Bridge.  73 

Edgardo  never  stepped  a  foot  aside 
From  honor's  pathway,  and  the  whisperer  lied, 
Whoe'er  he  was,  that  told  of  shame  to  him. 
Why,  I  have  had  him  when  the  night  was  dim 
Cradled  upon  my  heart,  and  could  believe 
My  own  beloved  wife  would  me  deceive  — 
Whom  I  do  know  pure  as  the  virgin  gold 
Clustered  within  the  lily's  sealed  fold  — 
Soon  as  that  he  would  e'er  have  hid  from  me 
One  single  deed,  whatever  it  might  be. 
Listen ! 

He  loved  a  maid  who  was  as  sweet 
As  new-blown  roses  when  their  petals  greet 
The  dewy  morning's  breaking,  and  as  light 
Of  tread  as  thistle-blows  in  airy  flight. 
You  knew  my  friend !     Not  as  are  other  men 
Was  he.     We  were  together  passing  when 
He  saw  her  first ;  we  were  together,  too, 
When  next  his  eyes  met  hers.     The  Arno  blue 
Smiled,  danced,  and  murmured  underneath  our 

boat, 

And  from  the  maiden's  forehead  to  her  throat 
I  saw  a  glow  like  sunrise  on  far  hills 
Spread  swiftly;  while,  as  wine  that  spills 


74  On  the  Bridge. 

Its  ruby  beauty  from  Venetian  glass, 

I  watched  a  flush  across  his  swart  cheek  pass. 

"  Day  after  day  he  met  her ;  day  by  day 
Posted  himself  to  cross  her  in  her  way. 
At  last  he  spoke,  and  she  was  quick  to  smile 
And  grasp  his  love  with  many  a  maiden  wile. 
To  see  them  then  was  as  though  Paradise 
Had  shown  the  beauty  that  within  it  lies. 
Her  limpid  eyes  of  blue,  her  chestnut  hair, 
By  his  dark  splendor  only  showed  more  fair. 
And  by  the  charm  of  Love  he  grew  beyond 
The  youth  enraptured  to  the  man  most  fond. 

"  Love  is  like  some  magician  as  it  turns 
Strange  things  to  glory  in  the  soul  it  burns. 
Frail   natures   strengthen,    strongest   men   grow 

frail, 

Vice  turns  to  virtue,  virtue  oft  may  fail. 
An  Alchemist  is  Love,  who  has  no  care 
Save  just  to  work  and  bring  his  seed  to 

bear  — 

Bear  oftentimes  poor  fruit,  and  oftentimes 
The  dearest  richness,  or,  it  may  be,  crimes. 


On  the  Bridge.  75 

"  But,  at  the  last,  Edgardo  came  to  grow 
Distraught  and  restless,  starting  as  a  doe 
At  sudden  knocks  or  flashings  of  the  light 
And,  waking  startled  in  the  still  midnight 
Would  rush  across  the  floor,  about  to  fling 
The    casement   wide    and    through    its    void    to 

spring. 

Strong  as  I  am  —  who  oft,  indeed,  have  thrown 
Edgardo  prostrate  as  an  olive  blown 
By  high  sea  winds,  when  in  our  friendly  bouts 
We  wrestled  at  the  noontime  'mid  the  shouts 
Of  boon  companions  —  in  such  freaks  as  these 
I  scarce  could  hold  him  surer  than  the  breeze. 
But  one  night  waking,    round  about  my  neck 
He    threw  his   arms,    and    as    though    all    the 

wreck 
Of   hopes    and   dreams  burst  from  his  stranded 

heart, 
Through  groans  and  tears  that  might  have  had 

their  start 

In  some  sore-wounded  god,  he  told  me  how 
The  maid  he  loved  had  broken  every  vow 
So  often  pledged  to  him,  and  soon  would  wed 
A  lordly  lover,  one  whose  daily  bread 


76  On  the  P>ru('-c. 

\Yas  at  his  call,  who  need  but  lift  his  hand 
To  gain  the  richest  lady  in  the  land. 

"  Then,  when  the  morning  broke,  Edgardo  went 
His  usual  way  and  seemed  to  be  content, 
Save  that  his  face  grew  thin  ;  his  eyes  so  bright 
I  ofttimes  thought  they  saw  beyond  the  sight 
Of  mortal  men.     Once  only  did  he  show 
Aggrievance ;  when  a  comrade,  laughing  low, 
Uttered  some  scathing  taunt  of  her  he  bit 
His  under  lip,  and  o'er  the  curve  of  it 

I  saw  a  thin  red  stream  of  blood  flow  down, 
As,  with  a  glance  more  full  of  scorn  than  frown 
Toward  the  man,  he  rose  as  one  might  feel 
Who  on  a  crawling  worm  had  set  his  heel. 
She  wedded.     So,  in  time,  did  I. 

Three  years 

Sped  swiftly  by  with  all  their  joys  and  fears, 
And  on  the  street  I  heard  that  she  had  come 
Back    to    the    place    that    was    her    childhood's 

home. 
Then  it  was  said  the  lord  she  wed  had  cast 

I 1  is  wife  away  with  tauntings  of  the  past,— 
Her  poorer  youth,  the  lover  who  was  still 


On  the  Bridge.  77 

Unwed,  and  waited  on  her  wavering  will 
To  come  to  her.     And  rumors  rose  that  she 
Was  careless  of  her  honor,  loved  to  see 
The  red  wine  brimming  high  within  the  cup, 
Was  known  with  men  of  vile  repute  to  sup. 
And  then  — •  and  then  —  ah,  pity  me  !  —  I  heard 
My  friend  was  dying.     He  had  caught  a  word 
That    slid    through    latticed    windows  —  rushed 

within, 

And  found  her  with  the  comrade  of  her  sin, 
Who  had  his  right  hand  raised,  about  to  smite 
The   woman's   face.     As    lightning   through   the 

night, 

Edgardo  struck  him,  when  he  turned  and  drew 
His  polished  steel  and  ran  its  sharpness  through 
My  noble  friend. 

This,  this  is  all !     Now  go, 
And  unto  every  man  whom  you  do  know 
Talks  of  his  death  as  shame,  I  pray  you  say 
What  I  have  told  you  on  the  bridge  this  day. 
If  such  a  death  as  his  be  shame,  then  I 
Crave,    like    my    friend,    a    shameful    death    to 
die ! " 


78  The  Star's  Mission. 


THE   STAR'S    MISSION. 

A     BABY  clasped  its  hands  and  slept: 

Across  its  eyes  like  gentians  blue 
The  veined  white  eyelids  downward  crept, 
The  red  lips  took  a  paler  hue. 


They  raised  it  from  the  cradle  low 

And  laid  it  in  a  harder  bed, 
Amid  soft  laces,  and  the  glow 

Of  blossoms  at  its  feet  and  head. 

They  hid  it  from  the  mother's  sight  — 
The  mother  with  the  empty  arms  — 

The  sunshine  glimmered  blinding  bright, 
And  all  the  field-flowers  lost  their  charms. 

The  night  came  on  with  stars  and  dr\v 
And  clear  calm  moonlight,  and  the  smell 

Of  moistened  flower-cups  and  the  few 
J  );ink  mosses  by  the  unused  well. 


The  Star's  Mission.  79 

And  "  Oh !  "  the  mother  thought,  "  how  bare 
The  earth  can  be  of  sweets !  "  and  still 

The  stars  shone  straightway  through  the  air, 
The  asters  nodded  on  the  hill. 

But  all  the  world  was  narrowed  down  — 
To  her  for  whom  it  once  was  wide  — 

And  crowded  in  the  hillock  brown 
New-rounded  on  the  meadow-side. 

And  then  she  saw  one  star  that  grew 

Of  separate  lustre  from  the  rest, 
Its  glorious  radiance  shimmered  through 

The  frozen  sorrow  in  her  breast. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  it  is  the  star 
That  led  to  where  the  Christ-child  lay, 

And  I  ?     O,  I  am  very  far 

From  Him  who  took  my  child  away ; 

"I  will  arise  and  go  to  Him, 

And  pray  for  peace  and  righteous  grace 
To  light  the  deathly  shadows  grim 

That  hover  o'er  my  baby's  face ! " 


8o  The  Star's  Mission. 

And  peace  descended  from  its  height, 
And  earth  regained  its  wonted  charms, 

The  mother-heart  shed  warmth  and  light 
On  other  children  in  her  arms; 

But  still  she  kept  one  place  apart 
And  none  but  God  might  enter  there, 

The  sacred  corner  of  her  heart 

Where  her  dead  child  was  shrined  in  prayer. 


The   Wife  of  Attila  Died.  8 1 


THE   WIFE   OF   ATTILA   DIED. 

OO  the  wife  of  Attila  died,  and  behold  there 

was  mourning  in  Hunia  : 
And  into  the  stream,  which  curved   like  a  bow 

about  the  crescent-shaped  headland, 
They  cast  green  leaves  from  the  nut  trees,  that 

the  current  might  bear  them  downward, 
And   the    maidens    of   other   nations  who   filled 

their  pitchers  and  vases, 
And  the  warriors  who   brought   their  horses   to 

quench  their  thirst  in  the  river, 
Seeing  the  blue-gray  bosom  of  the  stream  cov- 
ered thick  with  the  leaflets, 
Should  know  that  some  one  beloved  of  all  had 

died  in  the  land  of  the  Huns. 

And  on  the  day  counting  third  from  the  day  of 

her  dying,  they  laid  her 
Straight    on    the    short,    sweet   grass,    with  her 

white,  dead  face  turned  upward, 


82  The  Wife  of  Attila  Died. 

And  eyes  that  were  shut  from  the  sunlight  like 

violets  under  the  snow. 
They   plaited   her   hair   with   gems,  and   locked 

her  fingers  together;  and  then, 
When    the    moon    stood    in    the    midst    of    the 

heavens  and  the  stars  in  their  places, 
They  made  her  a  bed  in  the  ground,  and  folded 

a  coverlet  over 
Cut  from  the  greenest  of   turf,  and   on   it   they 

planted  a  rose-bush, 
Whose   blossoms   and   leaves   should   gather  all 

that  the  world  gave  voice  to, 
And  whose  roots,  running  down,  might  tell  her 

all  that  was  passing  in  Hunia. 

And    there    they   left   her   alone,    for    into    her 

grave  could  go  nothing 
Of   husband   and    children    but   love,    and   that 

love  was  her  portion  forever, 
So     long    as     the  breath  of  life  was  in  Attila 

and  his  descendants. 


Among  tJie  Grasses.  83 


AMONG  THE   GRASSES. 

THE  sweet,  sweet  grasses  growing  in   the 

field, 
And  all  the  lovely  weed-flowers  that  such  faint 

fragrance  yield ! 
I    lie    and    watch    them    bending    beneath    the 

breeze  that  blows 
Across    the    rolling    river    and    gardens   of    the 

rose. 

O   the    sweet   grasses   that   ask   not   name    nor 

fame  ! 
Just  a   little   place   to   grow  each  Summer-time 

the  same ; 
A  shower  of  rain,  a  breath  of  wind  scented  by 

the  fruit, 
A  bit  of  blessed  sunshine  to  warm  them  at  the 

root. 


84  Among  the  Grasses. 

O  the  sweet,  sweet  grasses,  let  them  have  their 

way! 
Nothing   makes   more   beautiful    than    they   the 

Summer  day; 
The   buttercups   and   clover,  the   sky-blue   chic- 

cory,— 
When  I  am  laid  away  at  last   may  these   grow 

over  me. 


I  seem  to  hear  them  singing,  weed-flowers  and 
grass, 

When  here  I  come  to  rest  me  and  watch  the 
white  clouds  pass. 

They've  brought  me  peace  and  courage  by 
their  unconscious  grace 

When  Sorrow's  hand  was  on  my  heart,  its  tear- 
drops on  my  face. 


O   the   sweet  grasses   and  weed-flowers   in   the 

mead ! 
Well  they  know  how  best  to  ease  the  spirit   in 

its  need. 


Among-  the  Grasses.  85 

What  wonder  that  the  bird  is  glad  to  make  his 

nest  among 
The    tangled    stems    and    blossoms    when    his 

blithe  song  is  sung ! 


O  the  sweet  grasses !  amid  them  here  I  rest 
With  all  the  sunset   splendor   a-burning   in   the 

West. 
Sometime,  when  on   the   tired   heart   my  hands 

are  folded  down, 
Good   friends,    I   pray   you,  bring   me    here   to 

sleep  outside  the  town. 


86  About  Myself. 


ABOUT   MYSELF. 


A 


H  me  !  I  met  a  man  to-day 
Who  used  to  seem  the  very  dream 
Of  what  I  wished  myself  to  be; 
He  often  lingered  on  his  way 
To  watch  us  in  our  boyish  play, 
Or  ask  me  something  laughingly 
About  myself. 

And  yet  to-day  he  did  not  know 
That  ever  he  had  met  with  me. 

He  touched  the  binding  of  his  hat, 
And  raised  his  head  a  trifle — so; 
My  name  broke  up  his  stiffness  though, 

And  then  we  had  a  quiet  chat 
About  myself. 

It  must  have  seemed  so  queer  to  him 
To  think  those  years  of  hopes  and  fears 
Had  made  the  little  boy  a  man. 


About  Myself.  87 

I  wonder  why  his  eyes  grew  dim 
When  mine  began  to  over-brim 
As  swiftly  on  his  questions  ran 
About  myself. 

He  is  quite  old  and  gray  and  bent, 
And  I  am  —  well,  I  will  not  tell! 

But  he  was  just  as  old  as  I 
Am  now,  when  on  the  street  he  lent 
Spare  moments  to  my  merriment, 

And  I  ne'er  took  a  thought  or  sigh 
About  myself. 

He  said  he  had  been  glad  to  see 
My  name  at  times  affixed  to  rhymes 

Or  books  that  won  a  long  review. 
And  that  his  daughters  both  would  be 
Much  pleased  if  I  would  come  to  tea, 

They  had  so  often  spoken  too 
About  myself. 

I'll  take  him  at  his  word,  and  go 
Some  Sunday  night  to  get  a  sight 
At  Mary  and  at  Margaret. 


88  About  Myself. 

They  used  to  like  me  well,  I  know, 
And  time  cannot  have  changed  me  so 
They'll  fail  to  find  some  graces  yet 
About  myself. 

But,  ah !    my  heart !     Those   years,  those    years 
Through  which  sharp  pain  like  April  rain 

Fell  down  my  pathway  as  I  walked. 
So  much  comes  back  of  loss  and  fears 
I  almost  wish  —  alas  !  these  tears  !  — 

I  had  not  met  that  man,  and  talked 
About  myself. 


Memorials.  89 


MEMORIALS. 

QUEEN'S    handmaiden,    very    young    and 

fair, 

One  early  morning  planted  lilies  where 
The  sunlight  fell  upon  a  pretty  spot 
Hedged  thickly  with  the  blue  forget-me-not. 
Far  from  the  fragrant  gardens  of  the  Court 
In  which  great  roses  bloomed  of  every  sort, 
Where  lovely  lilacs  hung  in  clusters  sweet 
And  pansies  made  rich  carpets  for  the  feet. 
A  little  corner  she  held  wondrous  dear 
Because  she  often  met  her  lover  here, 
A  bird-voiced  Troubador,  whose  magic  lute 
Struck,  with  its  music,  other  minstrels  mute. 

And  there  she  found,  one  splendid  afternoon 
When  all  the  air  was  filled  with  scents  of  June, 
The  queen  in  tears. 

"Who  planted  these?"  she  said. 


90  Memorials. 

"Twas    I,"  the    maiden   answered   with   bowed 

head. 
"  And    why  ? "      "  Because,    your    majesty,    the 

place 

Has  precious  memories."     She  raised  her  face 
And  saw  the  queen  was  looking  down  at  her 
More  tenderly  than  ever  through  the  blur 
Of  tear-drops  on  her  lashes. 

"And  for  me," 

In  measured  accents  spake  her  majesty, 
"  Long  years  ago,  before  my  lord  was  king, 
When  I,  a  child,  cared  not  for  anything  * 
But  sun  and  flowers  and  all  delights  of  life, 
We    played    here,  and   he   called    me   then  his 

wife  : 

And  after  years  had  passed,  we  older  grown, 
He    wooed    and    won    me    here    to    share    his 

throne. 

My  babes  here,  with  their  nurses,  used  to  play 
In  merry  gambols  each  sunshiny  day. 
What  wonder  then  the  place  is  consecrate 
To  sacred  thoughts  that  heed  no  gloomy  Fate  ? 
But  it  is  dear  to  you  as  well,  and  you 
Have  planted  here  these  lilies  wet  with  dew 


Memorials.  9 1 

For  a  memorial.     O  girl  of  mine  ! 

Full  often  shall  you  leave  upon  Love's  shrine 

An  offering  like  this  in  future  years 

And  sanctify  it  by  your  flowing  tears. 

But,  listen  child,  that  day  must  come  to  all 

When  castles  built  in  girlhood  surely  fall. 

And  so  sometimes  with  Love  :  a  tiny  worm 

Eats  the  foundation  that  we  thought  so  firm. 

And  the  high  turrets  topple  and  come  down 

Though  she  who  raised  them  may  have  worn  a 

crown. 

^ 

"Be  patient,  dear,  permit  not  Jealousy 
To  enter  at  Love's  portals ;  keep  the  key 
Always  against  your  bosom  and  be  sure 
Nothing  can  harm  you  if  your  soul  is  pure. 
Though  bitter  foes  surround,  full-armed  to  fight, 
Virtue  and  Faith  may  slay  them  in  a  night. 

"  Take  an  old  woman's  counsel  (you  are  young) 
And  set  a  seal  on  an  impulsive  tongue. 
Give  to  your  lover  more  than  he  bestows 
Not,  like  some  maidens,  always  rose  for  rose. 


92  Memorials. 

Not  measured  singly  out  a  smile  for  smile, 
Else  frowns  will  follow  every  once  a  while 
And  tears  wash  Love  away  as  tidal  waves 
Bear    land-flowers    with    them    to    unhallowed 
graves." 

Then   the   queen   blessed   her   as   she   blushing 

stood 

Like  a  peach-blossom  in  her  maidenhood. 
And,  after  many  years  had  passed  away, 
To  this  same  place  a  matron  came  one  day 
And   brought   a   child  who   played   at   cup   and 

ball 

While,  once  again  for  a  memorial, 
The  mother  with  a  smile  that  made  her  fair 
Planted  great  white  and  stately  lilies  there. 


Sympathy.  93 


SYMPATHY. 

TN  sorrow  once  there  came  to  me 
Two  friends  to  proffer  sympathy. 

One  pressed  warm,  dewy  lips  on  mine, 
And  quoted  from  the  word  divine  : 

Wiped  the  hot  tear-drops  from  my  eye 
And  gave  my  sore  heart  sigh  for  sigh: 

Told  me  of  pain  he  had  outgrown  — 
Pain  that  was  equal  to  my  own, 

And  left  me  with  a  tender  touch 
That  should  have  comforted  me  much. 

But  still  my  sorrow  was  no  less 
For  all  his  loving  graciousness. 

The  other  only  pressed  my  hand; 
Within  his  eyes  the  tears  did  stand. 


94  Sympathy. 

He  said  no  word,  but  laid  a  rare 
Bunch  of  sweet  flowers  beside  my  chair; 

And  closely  held  my  hand  the  while 

He  cheered  my  sad  gloom  with  his  smile. 

And  ere  he  went  he  sang  a  song 
That  I  had  known  and  loved  for  long. 

And  then  he  clasped  my  hand  again 
With  the  same  look  that  shares  a  pain. 

So  when  he  went  I  laid  my  head 
Down,  and  was  glad  and  comforted. 

What  was  the  difference,  can  you  tell? 
I  loved  my  friends,  alike  and  well; 

I  loved  them  both  alike,  and  yet 
The  one's  warm  kiss  I  could  forget, 

The  other's  hand-clasp  I  could  feel 
For  hours  through  all  my  being  steal. 

Each  shared  my  sorrow,  yet  to  me 
One  brought  but  love,  one  sympathy. 


Ahmed.  95 


AHMED. 

\I  7ITH  wrath-flushed  cheeks,  and  eyelids  red 

Where  anger's  fiercest  sign  was  spread, 
And  hands  whose  clenched  nails  left  their  print 
In  the  brown  palm's  deep,  sun-warmed  tint, 
The  chieftains  sate  in  circle  wide, 
And  in  the  centre,  on  his  side, 
Thrown  like  a  dog,  a  thieving  brute, 
Lay  Ahmed,  frowning,  bound  and  mute. 

"The  man  who  takes  an  offered  bribe 
From  chieftain  of  an  alien  tribe 
Shall  die."     So  ran  the  Arab  law, 
Read  by  a  scribe ;  and  Ahmed  saw 
In  every  eye  that  scanned  his  face 
Burn  the  hot  fury  of  his  race. 
His  fate  was  told.     All  men  must  die 
Some  time ;  what  cared  he  how  or  why  ? 


g6  Ahmed. 

They  loosed  his  tight-swathed  arms  and  feet, 
Unwound  the  cashmere  turban,  sweet 
\Yith  spice  and  attar,  stripped  the  vest 
Of  gold  and  crimson  from  his  breast, 
And  laid  his  broad,  brown  bosom  bare 
To  scimetar  and  desert  air. 
He  stood  as  moulded  statues  stand, 
With  sightless  eye  and  nerveless  hand. 

As  moulded  statues  stand,  but  through 
The  dark  skin,  at  each  breath  he  drew, 
The  wild  heart's  wilder  beating  showed. 
Then  on  the  sand  he  kneeled,  and  bowed 
His  head  to  meet  the  ready  stroke; 
The  headsman  threw  aside  his  cloak, 
The  curved  steel  circled  in  the  sun  — 
Ahmed  was  dead,  and  justice  done. 


Sometime.  97 


SOMETIME. 

OOMETIME  — It  gives  me  patience; 

Sometime  —  It  makes  me  strong; 
I  think  but  for  that  Sometime 
I  should  not  sing  a  song. 

I  used  to  feel  you  waited 

Somewhere  along  the  way, 
And  sometime  I  should  find  you, 

As  true  I  did  one  day. 

And  so  I  know  most  surely 

As  up  the  hills  I  climb, 
That  to  each  prayer  I  lift  Him 

God  answers  me,  —  Sometime. 


98  /;/  Absence. 


IN  ABSENCE. 

\  17  HERE   art   thou,  O   my  friend,  who   used 
VV    to  be 

So  near  to  me  ? 

Somewhere  on  earth  thou  art,  for  I  can  feel  — 
Times  when  the  dusky  Nights  about  me  steal  — 

A  touch  like  thine 

Press  lightly  on  these  tired  hands  of  mine. 
Where  art  thou,  O  my  friend,  who  used  to  be 

So  near  to  me  ? 

Earth  is  so  very,  very  wide  and  rough, 

I  lack  enough 
Of  strength  to  make   my  voice   reach   to   thine 

ear, 

Or  my  so  weary  feet  to  thee  draw  near. 
O,  when  wilt  thou 


In  Absence.  99 

Come  unto  me  who  criest  loudly  now  — 
Where  art  thou,  O  my  friend,  who  used  to  be 
So  near  to  me? 


Life  is  so  long  and  Time  so  full  of  pain; 

Come  once  again    ' 

To  let  me  look  upon  thy  sweet,  pale  face, 
Thine  eye  so  blue,  thy  wrist  so  set  with  grace  ! 

Then  shall  I  grow 

As  sunbeams  make  the  Summer  flowers  to  blow. 
Where  art  thou  now,  my  friend,  who  used  to  be 

So  near  to  me  ? 


What  if  I  failed  a  little  in  my  love  ? 

Those  stars  above 

Falter  sometimes  in  what  they  owe  to  God; 
Should  not  I  be  forgiven  whose  feet  have  trod 

So  sad  a  way 
In   which    more    rain   than    sunshine    filled   the 

day? 

Where  art  thou,  vanished   friend,  who   used   to 
be 

So  near  to  me  ? 


ioo  In  Absence. 

Come  with  thy  fond,  forgiving  smile,  once  more 

From  that  far  shore 

Lying  somewhere  with  waves  of  sea  set  'round, 
And  I  shall  hear  the  gladsomeness  of  sound 

From  thy  dear  lips, 
As  the  bee  joyfully  sweet  honey  sips. 
Where  art  thou,  my  one  friend,  who  used  to  be 

So  near  to  me  ? 

Am  I  to  blame  that  I  have  weary  grown 

Standing  alone? 

If  thou  hadst  trusted  longer  I  had  been 
Secure  of  love  on  which  my  love  to  lean. 

O,  sure  am  I, 

It  would  have  paid  thee  to  have  lingered  by. 
Where  art  thou,  trustless  friend,  who  used  to  be 

So  near  to  me  ? 


At  Midnight:  ^ 


AT   MIDNIGHT. 

T   STOOD  in  the  night's  great  darkness 
And  heard  the  calling  sea, — 

Ever  and  ever  'twas  speaking 
Out  of  its  heart  to  me. 

It  seemed  like  a  voice  beloved 

I  had  not  heard  for  years, 
And,  like  a  mist  in  the  morning, 

My  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

I  felt  my  heart  grow  purer, 

I  felt  my  soul  float  far 
As  if  it  were  seeking  Heaven 

To  shine  there  like  a  star. 

And  my  lips,  my  lips  made  answer 

Unto  the  sea's  sad  moan, 
As  if  I  had  found  my  darling 

And  stood  no  more  alone. 


2  /}/  Midnight. 

"Come  to  me,  sweetheart,"  I  whispered, 

"Come  to  my  empty  arms, 
And  see  how  close  I  will  fold  thee 

From  earth's  most  vague  alarms ! 

"Feel  how  my  hands  shall  caress  thee, 
Feel  how  my  heart  will  beat 

Against  thy  heart  as  I  hold  thee 
Near  in  this  safe  retreat  1" 

But  the  Voice  spake  low  and  sweetly: 
"Dear,  wouldst  thou  have  me  break 

The  bonds  of  peace  that  surround  me, 
Just  for  thy  longing's  sake  ? 

"Here  in  Death's  mystical  mansion 

Waiting  for  thee  am  I, 
Why  should  I  seek  thee,  who  surely 

Shalt  find  me,  by  and  by? 

"Ever  my  love  groweth  greater, 

Ever  thy  love  for  me 
Foldeth  me  over  and  over 

Like  the  tide  of  the  sea. 


At  Midnight.  103 

"Take  to  thyself  more  of  patience, 

Learn  to  be  strong  and  wait, 
And  I  —  O  love,  I  will  stand  here 
Very  close  to  the  gate." 

I  felt  the  breeze  on  my  forehead, 

I  heard  the  moaning  wave 
Hushing  itself  into  silence 

Like  the  hush  of  the  grave. 

And  then  I  grew  calm  and  patient ; 

What  if  she  did  not  stay? 
Close  to  the  gate  I  shall  find  her 

When  I  go  Home  some  day. 


14  DAY  USE 

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